Déjà vu. You’ve read about it. Described in one dictionary as “a distortion of memory in which a new situation of experience is regarded as having happened before”. Finding familiar that which should be unfamiliar. Not an uncommon sensation for you, is it?
Then why, this time do you dread it so? It’s as if you’ve lived through it all before in your dreams. Visions perhaps… visions witnessed through the eyes of another.
In your two decades of life, you’ve learned the hard way that nothing in this strange world is impossible. There is no time, no space, no earth, no gravity.
Slowly, you realize that you are not upon unfamiliar grounds, afterall. But, yes! This thought has toiled in someone’s mind – yours!
Expecting a quiet respite? I hate to disillusion you but this will have to come in a blow. As cliché goes, all good things come to an end. But not the fulfillment of realization… of acceptance.

>>> Another day of higher learning to you Ü

You are entering the white room, that is the password. You can leave all your hang-ups at the door now. Because this is the white room. My asylum. And you are welcome…

Look at all you pretty people walking past my eyes.
The room is getting smaller.
There’s a bright light deep inside.
My toes are curling upwards
And my toes have left my feet.
They took away my velvet chair.
My name is obsolete.
Good heavens! I don’t know how you got here;
Did you sneak inside my head?
Or did you say a few swear words,
And sneak under my bed?

Look! A huge, fat pilow.
Come on, lay your mind.
Lay it on my crooked thoughts
And see what fun you find.
Oh hell! We can get wicked, amuck and in ecstasy.
Delicious, angelic, innocent and in naivete.
You are entering the white room.
Nothing but pleasure, nothing but pressure.
No earth! No gravity!
No pain! No enmity!
Our bodies on the red.
You’ve shown me that secret weapon
That shoots my fears all dead.
This is the white room. My asylum. And you are welcome…

>>> I wrote this little entry as an opening for a book I am planning to publish in the near future. The content is all finished, save for a few pages that should be included in every book (acknowledgement, dedication, epilogue, etc.)

Come in
I’ve been expecting you
There’s a knock on the door
And love walks through
It lights a fire,
Smiles… smiled,
As though love was going to stay awhile.
And the fire breathes.
It weaves its spell.
But then love runs out of stories to tell.
For love is restless.
Love’s a flirt.
Love has places to go
And people to hurt.
And so here’s the shovel to smolder the flame.
Tomorrow you’ll barely remember my name.
And I’ll try to forget you, my dearest one;
As a person tries to forget the sun.
For love holds no purpose.
Love holds no charms.
Since I beheld you
Deep in my arms.

>>> A letter I gave someone. I just shrug when I think about that particular past. My years have wisened me and that's all that counts.
Book of the Moment: Anne Rice's Lestat
Music of the Moment: Chris Cornell's Sunshower

Home. Hours later, when night is reborn.
The heavenly stars above cower into the folds of night’s blanket, chastened by the glare of the imposing starscape below. Flickers of compassionless light studding a firmament of steel, glass and stone.

I’ve never really noticed before how disquieting it all seems. Yet, I definitely notice it now.

The dark above, the stars below. A world turned upside down. Just like mine.

burningice> do u think good people go to heaven, dino?
hundred> u ask the weirdest questions.
burningice> don’t tell me, u don’t wonder sometimes.
hundred> lol
burningice> gtg.

I’ve been online for too long and this account’s isp may be in the process of tracing it.

“Coward”, I heard myself say as I gently pulled the plug to disconnect from the internet. I look at the clock and realize that it’s just half an hour past 2 am. I got up and headed for the kitchen. I poured myself some coffee to bring zip to my gnarled and wracked body. I propped myself on a chair and tried to recapitulate some conversations with other chatters. I reminisced a little and decided that the night (or day), was too precious to waste on reveries. I finished my cup of zinger and again logged on the net.

They were all there. Hundred, vodka, skeezo, josh18, and all the other regulars. I began typing my kudos to everyone. Clickity-click, went the keys on my keyboard. Clickity-click, clickity-click. I couldn’t stop. It was as if I’ve imbibed some kind of drug that made me smitten by the computer’s monitor. Ah! Its hard, white frame. Its chiseled angles. Its smooth, flawless face and illumination.

burningice> I, for one, don’t believe in heaven
hundred> y say such a thing?
burningice> coz, I’ve been dead.
burningice> and I’m still in hell
hundred> ur starting to freak me out, cris
burningice> it’s true. mine was a sad story and I thought it was finally ending.
hundred> I think there’s something that uv been hidin’ from me.
hundred> am I not ur fairygodmother?
burningice> u knw very well hu it s abt
hundred> ahh! so, its prince charming again.
burningice> maybe being good doesn’t always mean being ryt hundred> love indeed, is a queer thing
burningice> lol
burningice> brb
hundred> (“,)

“Maybe being good does not always mean, being right”. It’s true. And I’m living proof!
I spent more than six years of my life, juggling between caring for a family with puppet parents and loving my prince, who thinks indifferently. My life is devoted to them. I love them. I hate them. My life is misery.

>>> written during my melancholic phase. Around year 2001. Glad i was able to save my entries.
Currently feeling contemplative.

My head was starting to swirl from all the booze I drank. The blinking lights and cigarette smoke caused my face to cringe and my eyes to burn. Friday nights are the best, dito sa
Malate. You get to meet different kinds of people. Cute guys with attitude; weirdos and their mohawks; human pin cushions and their pierced bodies; and if you’re lucky, you can even get a glimpse of Randy and other stars on their way to Ratsky’s.

Ganito lang naman ang buhay ng isang estudyante dito sa Maynila tuwing Biyernes. Of course it depends on whether you were able to fold a Ninoy Aquino inside the hidden pocket of your wallet to keep from spending it. Aral sa araw, gimik sa gabi. We consider this as treating ourselves after a long day of mind-frying. Party time may last from midnight to the crack of dawn. But for sure, a night in Malate is never at a loss for the unexpected.

One time, I was dancing my stuff in one bar I frequently go to. I almost thought that I’d go home without a story to tell. Just then, two gays started shouting and raving to the music. One climbed on top of a seat and the other stood in front, below the former. They started extending their hands and swaying to opposite directions, like spiders playing patintero with their prey. “Play our music!”, they shrieked, like harpies, their tongues flailing out their mouths; almost as if trying to taste the raw atmosphere of smoke, booze, and sweat.

I check the arena, turning three hundred sixty degrees, with an almost infinite slowness. Every face I see is different. Every movement, saturated with life. Every soul inside the night coven, bursting with a story to share.

Take kapitbahay, for example. We call her that because she once lived in the same dormitory with my friend. We don’t really know her, but we see her every time we go to Malate; almost as if she lived here. This was her kingdom and she was queen every night she danced. The ledge was her throne; every gyrate of her hips, a commandment; and every other person inside the dark den, her subject. Some say she was no longer studying --- filed her L.O.A. to avoid being kicked out due to failing grades. I then come into deep contemplation. Did her parents know this? I swiftly erase the thought from my mind. This should not be part of my reverie. I sway around, catching a nanosecond-smile from Alvin. This, on the other hand, was a guy who was there, not to drown his burden in ale, but to scope the place, looking for his latest victim; like the vampire, Lestat. For those who are not familiar with Anne Rice’s most famous character, the latter is a blood-sucking romeo who prefers victims who deserve to be victims. The more dirt, the better. Pero syempre, mas maganda kung palaban. That was how Alvin liked it. Pero ibahin mo si pogi. We met this waiter, the very first time I went to Malate. Quiet, but friendly, patience was already evident, the second I saw the sweat from his brow. He was working his way to college. Aral sa umaga, trabaho sa gabi. Kinda’ like makes you feel all guilty inside.

But then, all these faces form a part of me that make up what we coin as, human. I am kapitbahay, when I try to cover my melancholy with a life evident with happiness. I am Alvin, when I try to feel good about myself by toiling with the emotions of those I consider my inferiors. I am pogi, when I try to make up for what life cannot readily offer me. I am each of these three and a million others. But most of all, I am Malate --- full of life; bleak sometimes, but always full of hope.

I felt my head wanting to explode; thoughts turning redundant. I had too much to drink. It’s time to head home.

>>> This entry was done August 2, 2001, during the time wherein which i felt a little gratitude despite Eros' omnipresence in the life of everyone else's but mine. i just began typing one night and felt glad that i had something to preoccupy myself during those ungodly hours of just staring blankly at the ceiling.
Currently feeling grateful.

Information overload!!!
Hardly had enough sleep. I'm floating in limbo. Should I still do overtime later? Sigh! 'Been doin OT since Tuesday. Learned more about spidering technology, and myriads more about webbies, emails, domains and management. Phew! Woopie for me!!! Network Solutions is a cool account though.
My trainer is a real "Daria" with his monotone voice. My head's been bobbing since 6am. It's a good thing that my golden god has been waking me every 2am for the past 2 days. otherwise I'd be real late, considering I'd have to commute the span of Edsa and Ayala everyday. Good thing though, I'm Ms. Oc-Oc with her not-so-mundane adventures. i will never be late . . . I hope
The high point of my day would probably occur later when I go home from work. 'Saw this nice belt near City Walk in Glorietta. It's semi-beige, semi-ecru, has an overlapping buckle, same as the ones seen in F tv. . . it's a real keeper. 'Will cost me 500 bucks. Ouch! Ms. shopaholic, that's me.
The UP Diliman fair is coming. I'm really psyched! My personal pornstar wanted to go with me on the 14th but pop music isn't really my thing. Friday is the real event. That's when the good bands would be playing. I do hope he keeps his promise; to come on Friday with me instead. Last year, I enjoyed the advent of Aphrodite's feasr with a couple of High School friends (friends of his too). It's a shame we could spend the night together. I'm a real sucker for special days. We might be spending the 13th with Francis and Sheryl.
Valentine's day would be a good one this year. No burdens. Just waste bags.
Morpheus, lull me to sleep...


10 painstaking minutes after . . .

Aaargh! Why did I let Gwen talk me into going on OT! Tsk! Hold, my heavy, hold!
Doing a phone sim and getting the hang of it. Dino, my little fairy called me last Monday and told me that here sister in Canda is making lots of money in a call center. Of course this is just a career move. But we'll never know. Hold my pretties, hold!
Gwen's tantric moaning is pretty funny. She's been harassing her agents with her sarcastic genius. The kid has talent!
"Hold for a moment ... is that a P as in porn, R as in rarara, O as in orgasm, B as in blow, L as in luvah, E as in erotic, and M as in Mama, I want all!"
Hahaha! She's a real cake!
"I'm a filthy rich Chinese! I want to spend all my money!"
"Good for you Ma'am!"
"Are you religious?"
"Er, Ma'am?"
"Do you pray at night."
Cripes, maloloka ako sa mga tao dito!
Book of the Moment: Anne Rice's Blood Canticle
Music of the Moment: Gwen's Babble and Griping

I am here in the office, currently making friends with a new key board. Otherwise, I'd be in class, drawing doodles on my notebook. 2 more hours to go and we'll be all set to go. Won't be making any entries 'til Wednesday, I think. My belly dancer asked me if I could accompany him in a family affair (or something) on Wednesday. Sweet!
I went to the gym last Saturday. Had a few swigs of brandy and a bottle of light ale at Kuya Dinky's place. It' a shame he couldn't join us, though. I think i was a little tipsy from the amber I imbibed. Sheryl and my shining knight were also more of on the blabber side. 'Brought me to a closer perspective of things. Sheryl says she enjoyed it. Must have been less exciting for her during the "Jose Phase". Maybe that's why a quiet conversation and a night encounter with Bacchus gave her more than just a little bit excitement.
Cheers!

I did it! I killed Lucy! Finally, after 21 years, I was rid of him.

He was always the jinx in the family. The ugly one. The one who was intellectually challenged. The one with all the bad vices. The weakest among his siblings. He tried to build a façade which implored strength, knowledge and courage – everything that he was not. But I knew him. I knew as if we were twins sustained and plucked from the same umbilical cord. I knew as if we were a single stimulus, transmitted to the human brain. And yes, as much as I wanted to deny it, I knew him because he was my brother.

We used to be so close. Even though only a year separated us from being born together, there wasn’t a hint of envy in those eyes -- those eyes that would someday scheme against me.

Mom would dress us in identical clothes and one could not spot who was the older. We played with the same Tonka trucks and G.I. Joe dolls. We would get into trouble together by entering the principal’s office without permission during our kindergarten years. I would punch his bully when he was aggravated. I was his sister-bodyguard and I enjoyed every second of it.

At first, one would simply dismiss his childhood gestures as something that was done through pure innocence. He would stick his gum in my hair. He would bite my pale cheeks until they were as red as beets. But something told me that there was more than just the plain heck of it. I was to discover this only when we were already in College.

I saw the first signs when we were in Elementary. I studied in a coed school, while he studied in a school exclusive for boys. I didn’t ask my parents why they suddenly transferred Lucy to a public school, a few blocks from our house back then. They just said that Lucy’s asthma was failing his frail body and that his small frame couldn’t handle the long journey to school anymore. It was soon to be discovered in a private conversation between my mom and I, that they were advised to keep Lucy within close watch. “Slow learner,” they called him. I never voiced this out to any of my other siblings.

We grew apart when I took pre-Med. in UP Manila. Somehow, I didn’t have time to toil with his nonsensical stories and mislead aspirations. I was too busy studying. Besides, he had his friends, and I had mine. Somehow, there was a silent agreement between us; as if were introduced to a new freedom – I, from the burden of looking after him; and he, from the tiring fact of being compared to his younger sister.

He had several accidents during this growing chaos. Once he ran over a small girl while we were going home from province. The girl was hit by our car while he was driving. Everyone was in empty shock and froze like stone golems at the sight of the child’s tragedy. I rushed to pick the girl to bring her to the hospital (although, I was a bit shaken, myself), while he stared in stark terror at what he’s done. The girl survived, but my brother, as much as I loathe calling him that now, had to face the emotional torture of witnessing my alertness in situations as such. “Ang alisto talaga ni yet, Ma, noh?”; like a mantra, he kept repeating.

When I was in my juniors, he was supposed to have graduated a year prior to the advent of my classes. But as usual, he gave the same redundant reasons he used every year. The professor held an ire for him, his thesis partner was a mortal idiot, the subject was a burden from hell, etc. All this, when all the while it was his attitude and his college minions. He began hurting us physically, me in particular. Each negation I uttered in answer to his proposed arguments seemed to trigger an invisible button that made him go berserk. He would hound my mom for money; yell at her; call my dad a faggot; and utter other obscenities, unmindful of the hand that fed him.

I would talk to my parents – to each of them, to both. But their minds were as closed as the shroud that veiled the question of life after death. My mom would continue on being passive, tears rolling down her cheek. And my dad, he would stick to his self-denial and utter things that would compromise for acceptance. My two other siblings would only shriek in fright; and sometimes, in agony as things were one by one flung at them. Everything was so ridiculous.
“ I never considered you my sister, ” I recall hearing him. “ I don’t need you, “ he’d continue ranting. So angry he seemed. So lonely. He knew that he was alone. I was no longer there to protect him. No longer was I his bodyguard. Our parents kept him because it was their obligation. But they could no longer control him; contain his hate, his weakness. He could blame him all he wanted. They were already deaf to this. K & L were his siblings only in title. They shared the same loathing he bore fore his own family. Only intheir case, it was he they loathed. I still wonder if he knew this. Or was his mind too clouded by Mary Jane. My thinking leads me to the thought that it’s probably because I was also the one who discovered this vice of his, that he hated me the most. Poor thing. It was his only refuge and I had to give it away. Hmmm. Time is ticking. I have to do the deed before anyone wakes up.
It was 10 o’clock or was it 12? He was throwing plates the way he used to. Lucifer; his secret name known only to me, my sister and younger brother; was approaching my mother; his eyes scarlet with the stuff he took in, his breath, of smoke and booze. I stabbed him right through the heart. I killed Lucy! He was dead. I had no choice! It was him or mother! It was him or us! Goodbye, Lucy. It was to be done to protect you from what life couldn’t give. Sleep.
I woke up at 5 am to prepare for school. I heard him yelling downstairs. Lucy and his constant whining, his agonizing violence, his eternal loathing.
I was planting vicious, mental kicks on his face. Tomorrow night, I shall kill him again! Until then, my dear pillow.

* August 17, 2001
* Did you ever imagine planting vicious kicks on your mortal bullies? It’s the best. I wrote this little entry back when Lucy (not his real name of course)and I, were lapping the pool of enmity. Today, my troubles concerning him are so passé, thanks to a gentle angel named Jose. I’ll be posting an entry about the latter soon. And I hope you’ll enjoy it as much as my other entries.
* Some part of the entry has been modified and exaggerated to suit the literature. It cannot be concluded that I am a basket case who dwells on the thought of death, suicide or murder. It can be presumed however, that I take pleasure from the beauty of words; aesthetics of tone and mood; and delight in using subjects such as the absurd